


A Guide to Awkward Pillow Talk

by E_Salvatore



Series: Tagged: TBTP Tumblr Fics [10]
Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Tumblr Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 19:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6021427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_Salvatore/pseuds/E_Salvatore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by <a href="http://imagineyourotp.tumblr.com/post/63371106959/imagine-your-otp-lying-next-to-each-other-in-bed">this prompt</a>: 'imagine your OTP lying next to each other in bed, staring at the ceiling, embarrassed and slightly alarmed by the wild, intense, filthy sex they just had.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Guide to Awkward Pillow Talk

It’s dark now, the sun having set while they were too busy to notice. The complete loss of sight throws her sense of hearing into overtime, amplifies the blood rushing in her veins and the air rattling around in her lungs, the impossibly loud pounding of her heart and the sharp inhales as they both greedily gasp for breath. Somewhere in the apartment, the fridge kicks to life with a dissonant thump and hums off-key for a couple of minutes.

The silence that follows is deafening. She blindly reaches out for the small lamp on the nightstand beside her and gropes about for the switch. Warm light floods the room, illuminating the inexplicably fascinating patch of ceiling they've both been studying for the past five minutes.

“So.”

Of course Strand would be the one to break the silence; he doesn’t seem to have much else to say though. She moves her head to the side by the slightest degree and chances a quick look at him. The lamp provides just enough light for her to make out the discoloration on his neck.

Alex winces. Heat rushes to her face when faced with the evidence of her having marked Richard Strand, of all people. “I, um,” She gestures at his neck. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine.” His fingers dance over the unsightly mark; it reminds her of the butterfly-light touches he had teasingly traced over her skin. “The weather’s supposed to get cold. I’m sure I packed enough turtlenecks to last me until…”

She’s seen him in a turtleneck. It does things to her that no man in a turtleneck should do.

“Oh. Good.”

It’s so quiet. Too quiet, quiet enough for echoes of gasps and moans and whispered secrets to bounce off the walls.

“I should apologize as well,” Strand says after a while. “Some of the things I said…” If she were to turn on her side and look at him right now, would his cheeks be as red as hers? “Well. They were inappropriate. I’m sorry.”

The laugh that bubbles past her lips feels like a lifeline, like the first gulp of air after you surface from rough waves trying to pull you under. Only he would apologize for dirty talk.

“No, it’s-” Her voice falters when he rolls on his side and props his head up with a hand, bewildered by her laughter. She feels dizzy when their eyes meet, trying to reconcile this Strand with the one from ten minutes ago and the one from ten hours ago. Is there something different in his eyes now, something that wasn’t there before?

“It’s okay, really. You don’t have to- I mean, have you heard your own voice? You could get away with saying pretty much anything.” She’s babbling. It’s embarrassing, and it’s entirely his fault because he won’t take his eyes off her and it’s making her feel ridiculously flustered.

“Oh.” Strand blinks. His lips twitch with effort as he bites back a smirk, but he can’t hide the pleased glint in his eyes.

She offers him a forced grin, hoping it's too dark for him to pick up on her blush. “Yeah.”

He flops onto his back once more, and they lapse into silence.

Her body is slowly cooling down. Her thighs are sticky with more than just sweat. She needs a shower, she needs to get away, she needs to sleep in her own bed tonight and try to come to terms with what they’ve just done. But first, she needs to say something, _anything_ , to keep them from falling back into awkward silence. Something. Anything.

"Impressive stamina, Doctor Strand."

If a demon portal were to appear right now, she wouldn’t even question it; she’d just be thankful for the escape and dive right in.

But it’s not like that came out of nowhere. The few times she’s given in and let herself imagine this (late at night, while going over the day’s recordings, usually after a few glasses of wine and a few hours of his voice in her ears), she’s always been somewhat… cautiously realistic? Obviously it wouldn’t be like sex in college, when everything was new and exciting and you’d sync up your days off to spend hours in bed. He’s in his fifties, and she’s not exactly a fresh-faced twenty-something anymore. She’s always imagined it would be rather tame, most likely confined within the bedroom, and they’d probably spend more time awkwardly talking afterward than they would on the actual act itself.

She was wrong on all counts.

Strand laughs, something more genuine and pleased and happy than his usual amusement-laced exhales. “Well, some studies show that older men tend to…” He clears his throat and leaves the sentence hanging. She fears the reminder of his age (and hers) has made him uncomfortable, but she hopes he’s just embarrassed for having let slip that he keeps up with this kind of thing.

“Right.”

She can’t think of anything else to say, and Strand doesn’t seem to be particularly inclined to keep that line of conversation going.

“I think I need a shower.” It’s with no small amount of effort that she pulls herself up and gets to her feet. Strand blinks at her owlishly; his glasses must be somewhere in the living room. Or the kitchen? She hadn’t been paying attention at the time.

“Oh. Of course. The bathroom’s – well,” He smiles weakly. “You know where it is.”

That she does. She also knows where he keeps his mugs and his tea, where he keeps the towels she’s free to use whenever she comes in from a rainstorm, where she can help herself to a pen and a blank sheet of paper if she needs one. God, this is going to be such a mess come morning.

But it’s not morning yet. It’s dark, dark enough that she has to squint, just the slightest bit, to see him… and when she does, her vision blurs and her mind supplies her with images – memories, now – of him smirking at her, his head between her thighs, her fingers in his hair. And it’s not like things could get any worse, right?

Oh, screw it.

“Are you coming?”

If Richard Strand were the kind of man to gape, this would be the appropriate time to do so. But even now he struggles to maintain his composure; she can see the restraint he exercises on his features, how quickly he blinks away his incredulity, how controlled his movements are when he gives her the slightest nod and gets up. He leaves behind the covers and they’re both left standing there, separated by a bed and clad only in wisps of darkness.

“Lead the way.” His smile is reassuringly familiar, his voice is unexpectedly teasing and his eyes betray none of the concern and fear and uncertainty he must feel, the same potent cocktail of panic brewing within her.

She decides to take a page out of his book.

In the morning, Alex will freak out about this, process it, rationalize it and then discuss it with Strand like two mature adults – probably in that order. But for now, she’s going to make the most of this night. 

So far, Strand’s surprised her at every turn. It’s probably okay to be cautiously optimistic about shower sex, right?

**Author's Note:**

> Happy belated Valentine's Day, fandom! I can't believe I wrote this. I stumbled upon the prompt on Tumblr and of course my mind went straight to these two, but I didn't give it much thought. And then this happened.
> 
> This might be the most suggestive thing I've ever written. I know it's practically kiddie stuff by fanfic standards but still. Here's hoping it isn't as cringe-worthy as I think it is.


End file.
